Late Breaking

by K. D. Miller

  “Yeah. Well. Cold out there.”

  The next morning shows signs of turning into one of those perfect days that tend to greet the end of a holiday. Leonora is full of beans, running around the breakfast table reciting the names of all the toys and dolls and stuffed animals that she can’t wait to see again. She appears to have completely forgotten about her hysteria in the night.

  “Are you okay?” Fiona asks Leo. He has barely touched his cereal.

  “Yeah. Just a bit of a headache.”

  “Tell you what. I can finish the packing. Why don’t you take a walk or whatever you want to do?”

  He nods. Gets up. “Think I’ll go down by the lake.”

  “Take your laptop with you?”

  “Yeah.” Then, “No.”

  “I’ll pack it then?”

  After a moment, he nods.

  The surface of the lake is calm, reflecting the spreading fire of the colouring leaves. On the far shore is a tall stone outcropping. Sheared off, he imagines, by a glacier that melted eons ago.

  Lost Lake.

  Leo perches on a rock at the edge of the small, pebbly beach where his daughter paddled in the water yesterday. Was it just yesterday? He feels as if he’s aged years.

  Last night in the woods, as he stood waiting and listening, he began to feel like a kid taking a dare. Turn the flashlight off, he dared himself. And so he did. He’d never been in darkness like it. He might as well have been blind. Gradually, as his eyes adjusted, the moonlight helped him pick out varying densities of shadow. A tree here. A break in the foliage there.

  take off your clothes

  Could the dare be coming from outside himself? Easy to imagine anything in the dark. But it still felt a little like playing a game. So yeah. He would play along. At this point, he’d do anything. What did he have to lose?

  He stripped naked. Put his clothes in a pile at his feet, the flashlight on top. Stood shivering, trying to send out feelers from every inch of his body.

  Nothing. So what now? Do a dance and see if it rains? One more try. Then he’d put his clothes on, go back and face the music with Fiona.

  “All right. Who the hell are you? And what do you want?”

  His voice was shocking in the silence. He listened. Hard. Nothing. He was just bending to reach for his clothes when—

  Slowly, he straightened up. There was a thickening of the darkness in front of him. A figure? Two. One big, one small.

  He swallowed. Whispered, “Who are you?”

  you know

  “What do you want?”

  what you want

  “All right, look. Leave my daughter alone. Get out of her head. You can’t have her.” He was shaking. He could barely get the words out.

  The figures separated. Did he feel a touch—small fingers—on the back of his right hand? Hear a ruffle of wind like a breathy giggle? Then a touch on his left hand? It was a game Leonora sometimes played, touching his hand, making him turn, then slipping round behind his back to touch his other hand and make him turn the other way.

  He snatched his hands up to his chest. “Please,” he begged. “Stop.” And she did. But now she was right behind him, reaching between his legs, grabbing his balls in a small cold fist. Then in front, gripping his cock. And now—

  “No. No. Don’t!”

  Cold breath on him. Small cold lips ringing him. A tongue. Lapping. Fluttering.

  “No. Stop. Don’t. Yes. Don’t. Stop. Yes. Yes!”

  He bent double. Groaned. Heard laughter on the wind.

  “What do you want?” he groaned again, still bent.

  you know

  “Look, do anything to me. Just leave my daughter out of it. Don’t let it involve her. Take anything I’ve got. My sight. My sanity. Put me in a wheelchair.”

  more

  “What! What!”

  you know

  And he did. He did know.

  The wind is starting to rise. The surface of the lake isn’t perfect any more. He should be helping Fiona pack. In a minute he’ll get up. Go start loading the car for home.

  His hands feel twitchy. Maybe he should have brought his laptop with him. Gotten it over with. Booting up. Opening the Lost Lake file. Then—

  What? Will he simply delete it? Or will he keep it, like the unopened bottle of booze a dry drunk keeps in a desk drawer? Is that what it will be like? Always wanting, always denying himself, every minute of every day? Or will it be more like the phantom pain of an amputated limb?

  Steps behind him.

  Breath in his ear.

  Small hands over his eyes.

  “Guess who?”

  CROOKED LITTLE HOUSE

  “Hi. Mr. Sparks? I’m Ahmed. From the vet’s?”

  “Oh.” Len wasn’t expecting the new guy. “Good morning.” Hardly seems old enough to be a veterinarian. Hair in one of those man-buns, if that’s what they’re called, that make everybody look like a samurai. “Please come in.”

  Ahmed steps into the front hall and puts down what he’s carrying—a small black case with a handle, and something that looks like one of those lifters for fireplace logs.

  In the living room, Sister is awake in her bed. She did raise her head when the knock came and made the soft Whuff! sound that is as close as she can come these days to a bark. But then she just lowered her head and closed her eyes. Time was when she would have been up and crowding the backs of Len’s legs, eager to see who was coming to her house.

  Len leans on his cane, bends, and puts his hand on her head. “This is a friend, Sister. Friend.” The old beagle peers dimly at the visitor, stretching her neck and flaring her nostrils for a whiff.

  “Hello, Sister.” Ahmed crouches, his knees cracking. “May I pat her?”

  Len nods, not trusting his voice. An hour ago, he changed into a suit and tie. It seemed fitting, and it was his only deviation from routine. He wanted this morning to be exactly the same as any other, from Sister’s standpoint. So he fed her the little bit she was likely to get down. Helped her onto the newspapers he’s had to put by the door. Wished he could have taken her for one last walk through the waterfowl park, but these days it’s all she can do to stand. Gave her a good brushing. That was tough. For him. Sister loved it.

  “Okay if I sit down?”

  “Yes. Of course. Forgetting my manners.” Len gestures to the couch, and Ahmed sits. “Would you like some coffee? Tea? A cold drink?”

  “No, I’m fine, thanks. But maybe you’d like to fix something for yourself?”

  Len shakes his head, easing down into his chair.

  “Okay, then.” Ahmed leans forward. “Mr. Sparks, I want to do whatever’s right for you and Sister. I’ve done this a few times before, and some people like things to happen as quickly as possible. Others want to talk about their pets. Maybe look at some photographs …?”

  “I think we’ll go for the quick option.”

  “Okay. And afterwards, again, it’s up to you. I can leave Sister with you for a while and come back for her later, or—”

  “Again, quick. Please.”

  “Okay. I’ll just get my bag.”

  *

  “Mom, I could make my own breakfast. You don’t have to wait for me to get up. And this is—”

  “Oh, go on. High point of my day, watching my boy eat. Then heading off to work.”

  All Curtis wants is coffee, but that doesn’t seem to be on order. Maybe he can drop into Starbucks. If he has enough pocket change left for a small regular. He picks up his fork. Scrambled eggs on toast. Never fried.

  “Maybe it’s just as well you slept in a bit …” His mother’s voice is tentative, her old eyes big.

  Oh, shit.

  “… There’s a special service tonight. Pastor Peter …”

  “Mom, I might have to work la
te. The other pages are booking off because it’s Thanksgiving this weekend. So Sondra might need me.” Right. Like the earth will stop turning if two carts of library books don’t get shelved on a Friday night.

  “Oh. Well.” He can see his mother struggling between pride that he has a job and disappointment that she won’t be able to show him off again at Kingdom Come Pentecostal.

  He went once to one of those special evening services. They were almost late, so Curtis ended up escorting his mother down the aisle to a pew near the front where there were still some empty spots. They must have looked like some oddball bridal couple, her white head barely level with his shoulder, her ancient hand light as an insect on his arm. And the organ-saxophone-drum combo booming and hooting and banging away. Pastor Peter was already front and centre, his lantern-jawed grin catching the light.

  “Wel-come to our ser-vice of heal-ing and for-give-ness!” Do they learn that weird way of talking in minister school, Curtis wondered, slumping in the pew. “We have a very special guest with us this evening.” What? A drop of sweat tickled down Curtis’s spine. “But I’ll let his best friend in the whole world, our own Doris Maye, introduce him.” Fuck. No. Pastor Peter had turned the glare of his smile onto his mother, who was struggling to her feet.

  “My prodigal son who was lost to me is now found,” she croaked into the sudden hush. And then she told them. Told a room full of religious nuts the whole fucking story.

  Pastor Peter led the applause. His mother poked him till he stood up and turned around. All six feet of him. With his thinning hair and greying beard. At least they couldn’t see what he was thinking. How easy it would be to kill his mother. That night. Pillow over the face. Not much pressure. Just long enough for the jerking to stop.

  “Thanks, Mom,” he says now, wiping his mouth. “That was great.”

  “But you’ve hardly finished—”

  “Gotta go.” It’s ten-thirty. Though he doesn’t actually start work till one, he’s told her he has to be there by eleven. Some morning she might want to come with him, and the jig will be up. But till then, he has two hours, five mornings a week, outside by himself. Long as he doesn’t leave town, he can go anyplace he wants. Look in store windows. Sit on a park bench. Breathe the air.

  “Don’t forget your lunch. It’s in the fridge.”

  It always is. And he never forgets it, because if he does, he’ll go hungry. Not like he can just skip out to a restaurant on what he makes shelving books in a public library. A packed, brown-bag lunch. Same as when he was in high school. And in a couple of hours, he’ll be doing a job he could have done when he was in high school. Not that he’s complaining. He never complains. Just keeps his head down. Does his time.

  *

  The minute Mary tells Dave, she knows she’s made a mistake. She can see it in his eyes. He is weighing the news. The implications for his marriage. His career. And the leverage he has just gained.

  “Well, Miss Somers,” he begins.

  He could call her Mary. His office door is barely cracked. She wanted it closed. It’s recess, after all, and there are no kids in the hall. No teachers, either. They’re all out supervising the playground or catching a bathroom break. So the two of them are essentially alone. But it seems that the rules are once more the rules.

  “I appreciate your coming to me with this,” he starts in. “And I understand your concern for your students. My hunch, however, is that, as the officer made clear to you, you are in no actual danger. And, school safety notwithstanding, if we were to overreact—say, by putting you on paid leave and bringing in a supply teacher—it would do more harm than good. Plus, there’s the fact that these people—the ones who issue these kinds of threats—are hoping for just such an overreaction.”

  He folds his hands on his desk and gives her one of his the-Principal-is-your-pal smiles. His together-we-can-deal-with-this smile. Except they’re not together. Not any more. If they ever were. And she did hear his own implied threat. Paid leave. Supply teacher. This early in the year, when it’s so important to bond with your class. Afterwards, when she came back—if she came back—the kids wouldn’t even know her.

  So she’s blown it. Completely. But what was she expecting? That when he heard her news his eyes would soften with concern? That he would take her in his arms? Promise to be her big, strong protector? Stupid. Stupid. She has in fact just handed him the weapon he needs. If she goes to the Board and makes trouble for him, he can deny her accusations, impute them to stress brought on by this terrorist target list nonsense, and put her on leave. Medical. For her own good.

  “Dave—”

  He clears his throat. Glances at the cracked-open door.

  “Mr. Edgehill—” The last time she called him that, they were in bed. She said it teasingly enough. But his expression changed, and she felt him starting to withdraw from her, their skin sticky in the late summer heat.

  They had met on the street one morning last July outside the town hall near Charlotte and Main. School had let out for the summer not two weeks before. She was surprised when he seemed to want more than just a nod and a few pleasantries. Pleased when he suggested coffee, so they could have a real talk for a change. Then not surprised at all a few hours later when she was in the backyard working in the garden and heard the gate open. There he was. Husband. Soon to be a father. Walking toward her with his arms out.

  Two months. Less than that.

  On the Labour Day weekend, when she was out shopping for school supplies, she once again encountered him on Main Street. This time, he was arm-in-arm with his pregnant wife. Mary! How’s the summer been treating you? Cynthia, you remember Mary Somers, our kindergarten teacher? Small talk. Actual small talk. She thinks she may even have congratulated Mrs. Edgehill. See you in school, Mary! And the two walked away, once more arm-in-arm. Leaving her to try, with her shredded mind, to remember where she had been going in the first place.

  “Yes, Miss Somers? Is there anything else?”

  The bell. Recess is over. She has to go and relieve the teacher who’s watching her kids.

  “No.”

  He nods. His look makes it clear that there will indeed be nothing else.

  Out on the playground, she calls, “Room one! Come inside now, please!” At kindergarten age, they still come when called. Crowd around her legs as she leads them back to their classroom, some grasping her hands, some the fabric of her pants or the edges of her smock. Filling her nostrils with that morning childhood smell of soap and cereal.

  She is thirty-three. She told him she was on the pill.

  *

  “I’m sorry. What do I owe you?” Len pulls his billfold out of his lapel pocket. Can’t see. And his damned hands are shaking. He blots his eyes quickly on his cuff.

  Ahmed puts his hand on Len’s wrist. “Tell you what. I’ll bring you a bill on Tuesday when I deliver Sister’s ashes. Sorry it can’t be sooner, but it’s the long weekend.”

  “Fine. Fine. We’ll do it that way.” Keep it brisk. Close the billfold and put it back—Oh, hell.

  “Hey, no worries.” Ahmed bends, picks the wallet up off the rug and hands it to Len. “I’m going to take her now, as we agreed. Some people like to be there for that. Others prefer not to be present.”

  Oh, Jesus Christ, will this never end? “Just take her.” Len turns and stumps away into the kitchen.

  He sits looking out the kitchen window for a long time. Wonders if he will regret not witnessing Sister’s final exit from the house. Decides he doesn’t have to make an issue of it if he doesn’t want to. Just a simple, necessary procedure, after all.

  “No big deal, right, Girl?” Before he can stop himself, he drops his hand for Sister to nuzzle.

  *

  Curtis actually likes shelving books. First putting them in order on the cart. Then wheeling up and down the stacks, finding each volume’s precise place on the s
helf. Sliding it in between its fellows. Checking three books to the left, three to the right. Shifting the spine in or out to be flush with the metal edge. He likes straightening, too. It’s purely physical. You could be from Mars, have no idea what the letters and numbers at the bases of the books’ spines mean, and still be a good straightener. When he’s finished a bay, he always takes a step back and eyeballs it, top to bottom. Pushes or pulls anything that’s even a quarter of an inch off.

  Should maybe have gone into the army …

  Quit it. Put a stop to the maybes and the what-ifs and the if-onlys right now. Just shelve books. Do your job. Like you did inside. Like you told the new guys to do.

  That’s the only thing he misses. He was sort of a counsellor in the last five years or so. Keep your head down, he would tell the new guys. Volunteer for some kind of job and do it the best you can. Respect the authorities. Whatever shit you’re given to eat, just eat it. The time will pass. It was the same advice he got, his first night, from Larry. When he was new, before he’d had a chance to bulk up, Larry protected him. For a price.

  “Excuse me?”

  Curtis looks down. One of the regulars.

  “Could you tell me who wrote Pudd’n’-Head Wilson?”

  Mark Twain. He’s so close to saying it. He had thirty-five years to do not much more than read.

  “Sorry. Could you ask Ms. St. Clair? She’s the librarian.”

  Once, only once, he did answer a patron’s question about a book. Sondra St. Clair had a little chat with him in her office afterwards, about what his duties as a library page did and did not include. And all the time, her eyes were stroking his pecs through his thrift shop T-shirt. Lingering on his tatts that the sleeves didn’t quite cover. Reminding him of Larry.

  He can hear her now over at the circulation desk. “Pudd’n’-Head Wilson? That’s a new one.”

  No it’s not. It’s old. And it’s by Mark Twain.

  “I’m going to have to look the author up.”

  Mark Twain. Mark Twain. Mark fucking—

  He grips the edges of his book cart. Thirty-five years. He never lost his temper. Not once. Now, every single day, he’s afraid he’s going to blow.